She’s lying back, hair a mess, eyes half-closed, breathing soft, and I can’t help but grin. Honestly, she looks ridiculous — exhausted and gorgeous at the same time.

I flop onto the bed beside her, nudging her shoulder. “Oi,” I say, teasing, “don’t go passing out on me just yet.”

She groans softly, almost inaudible, and I can’t help the chuckle that slips out.

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “You’re knackered. But I’m not letting you sleep like a disaster. Not on my watch.”

She barely opens her eyes, giving me that sleepy glare that’s half annoyance, half adoration. I bite back a grin.

I grab the warm cloth I had ready earlier. My movements are careful, but I make sure she notices I’m fussing over her — like she’s mine, and I’m in charge for a little while.

“Come on, let me take care of you,” I murmur. “You can just lie there, look pretty, and not move a muscle. That’s an order.”

She hums, pretending to protest, but I see the faint smile on her lips. I wipe gently, deliberately, and she relaxes immediately into me.

“Too much effort to get up?” I tease, even though I know she’s exhausted. “Fine, I’ve got you. Let’s make sure you’re comfortable.”

I help her to the bathroom, careful but strong, holding her steady. She leans into me like she trusts me completely, and that little thump in my chest hits harder than it should.

When she’s done, I wrap her in a towel and carry her back to bed like she’s fragile porcelain — even though she’d argue I’m overreacting.

Once we’re back, I pull the duvet over her, tucking her in. I settle behind her, one arm draped over her waist, the other gently stroking her hair.

“See? All sorted,” I murmur against her ear. “Safe. Warm. And I’ll make sure you don’t do anything daft while you’re asleep.”

She sighs, relaxing completely, and I can feel her fingers curl around mine.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmurs.

“Maybe,” I admit, “but you’re worth it. Every bit of effort, every bit of fussing. I only do this for you, you know?”